Forgive, but Never Forget
by ZeldaDragon
Summary: How can you forgive your mother when it seems all she does is make your life horrible, even stealing your son away? But when that one life is taken, how can you forgive yourself for everything you never said? A one-shot, in Caro's PoV -Complete-


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I think this is one of my best. I really got into Caroline's character and had a wonderful time writing this. =) (It seems that I love to write about _any _character that Carrie-Anne Moss plays, huh?)

I would like to say that a lot of the information within this short story comes _mostly from the book_. (Yes, there is a book…and it's one of my absolute favorites. If you haven't read it, I suggest you do.) Some things, such as the name of Vianne's shop and Armande's age, are taken from the book, not the movie. You have been warned. But this doesn't mean that those of you who haven't read the book can't read this. Quite the contrary. Please do read this, even if you haven't read (or even heard of) the book.

Told in Caroline Clairmont's point of view when she sees that Luc is gone.

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Disclaimer: No one mentioned within this story belongs to me. I just like getting inside their heads.

Enjoy!

I will never forget the fear that spiked under my skin when I pulled away the covers, to find balled paper in place of my son's body. He was gone. Gone! How could I have missed him? Had I really been so blind? Was I really such a horrible mother to not notice my only child's absence? After a moment, I realized there were few places he could be. The fear turned to a diluted anger, long run down but still present. Heaving a soft sigh, I stood from the bed and nearly ran from the room. _Mother_...

The air was cold, whipping around my body as I made my way through the empty streets to the La Céleste Praline. The door was locked, the lights out. The moon reflected off the large plate of glass, spreading over the chocolate display inside. My heart constricted in my chest. Luc was not here. No one was.

I turned, looking around. Even the Count's windows were dark, the only light nearby being the glow from the lamps beside the church. My eyebrows furrowed in concern. Where was my son? Where was Luc...Vianne, Joséphine?

My mind flew again to my mother. It was her birthday today. Eighty-one. Not nearly as old as she could live to be, if only she would take my advice. What was Vianne thinking? How could she endanger someone like that, giving her the thing that could lead to her death? To make her happy, that's why she does these things. To make her happy. Something I myself could not do. I'm the woman's daughter, and not in my entire life have I ever been able to make her smile as much as she has been in the past few weeks. Am I really so over protective of her, of my Luc?

I realize with a start that I am running. Running to the one place in the entire village I wish not to be anywhere near. As I near the large house, I can smell the faint wisps of chocolate on the air, mixed lightly with smoke. Laughter could be heard in the distance. The brick walls loom up around me, whispering of memories and happiness from long ago. I pass around the front, knowing no one will answer if I knock. The garden gate is open, and without a second thought, my feet take me through it.

Her flowers are blooming. The air is thick with their perfume, intoxicating. I round the corner, nearly hitting a large table set up in the center of the small yard. Dishes are scattered across the top, littering the white tablecloth. But no sign of life, not here. The laughter again catches my ear and I wander to the edge of the garden. I could just make out the reflection of the boats on the water, the image of people dancing to the lively music and children playing.

I make my way to the edge of a line of trees just outside the fence, as close as I dare to the festivities. I see the river gypsies twirling and laughing, having the time of their lives. A few of the people from town are with them, only slightly standing out among the wild crowd. The man with the red hair, the one that frequents Vianne's shop - Roux? - playing a guitar, accompanied by a few of his friends on various instruments. So many people...it takes me a moment to find who I am searching for.

Then my eyes focus on him. Luc. He's out there dancing. Dancing! With none other than his grandmother. She's holding to his hand with one of her own as he spins around her, the other clutching her cane, complete with red ribbon. I lean heavily against the tree. I have never seen either of them so happy, so carefree. A strange feeling knots in my stomach. I have been a horrible daughter, haven't I? _Oh, Mother_...

Luc does not see me, too caught up with laughter and the euphoric feeling of freedom. But she does. As though she can hear my very thoughts, she looks up. Our eyes catch. I'm torn, and I can tell that she is too. I want to run down there and snatch my child away, to keep him from these people, to protect him. But another side of me wants to leave him here to have fun, leave him with his grandmother, something I now realize he has had too little of in his fourteen years. The latter wins out. After a split-second, I turn tail and rush away. I half expect her to come after me, but she doesn't. She never does.

I walk slowly back to my home, my eyes glazed. When did things change? When did my own mother and I become adversaries? My mind wanders back to when I was a child. I had been a crazy one, yes, but only when I was young. By the time I was Luc's age, my father died and it was just my mother and I, alone. Even then, she refused to take her medicine regularly, though neither of us knew of the consequences at the time. Whenever she fell ill, it was left to me to take care of things, cleaning and buying groceries. We were never on a shortage for money, but things were not always calm.

Fights and arguments came, growing intense over the years. By the time I was seventeen, I married and moved out. Luc came three years later. Georges, my husband, passed away two years after that. I loved Georges dearly, and I still ache for him. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if he had not been killed. How would my life, Luc's life, be different? Would I be less nervous about everything, would I let my child live a more normal life instead of keeping him locked up? Yes, yes I would have. We would have been a happy family, one who went for walks in the evenings, went out for chocolates after church...all without a care in the world. But that life is gone now, my Georges is gone, along with all the hopes and dreams I had left my mother for.

I let myself into the house. I remove my shawl and hang it on the coat rack. My stomach twists sickeningly as I go up the narrow stairs and into my whitewashed room. The bed is neatly made in white linens, the white pillows fluffed and propped against the headboard. I choke back a sob and fall onto the mattress, burying my face in the down pillows. As they always do, my thoughts drift back to Luc. My child, my son. The one link that still remains to the past, and to the life I wish we had. And now the only link to my mother. My dear mother.

"How can I make things better?" My voice startles me, the harsh tone cutting through the silence. I wish to make peace with her; deep in my heart I have for years. But I have never been able to bring myself to breach the touchy subject. I haven't had a real conversation with her in the longest time. It seems that whenever we meet, there is a struggle for dominance. I never mean to, really I don't. All I wanted was... What did I want? It seems I can't even remember.

Somehow, this is my fault. This broken family is all I have, and there is no way to fix the pieces back together. I know it's too late for that. But maybe there is still something I can do to save Luc from this silent oppression. Maybe.

I remember the old bike Georges used to ride in the mornings his shop. In the months I was pregnant, he would ride out to the bakery to buy me sweets. He loved it. "I am going to teach our baby how to ride a bike," he had told me, a large smile on his face as he patted my swelling abdomen. He never got the chance. _He _never got the chance...

I sit up on the bed and wipe my eyes. When had I started crying? I take a moment to compose myself before standing and going back down the stairs. I walk through the large, empty kitchen and open the cellar door. Musty air rushes out to greet me as I make my way down into the darkness. I run my hand blindly over the wall, searching for the light switch. My fingers find it and flick it on. The yellow light fills the under-used room. Boxes and boxes are piled all around, an old desk and chair sitting dejectedly against a wall, this covered with junk. Everything is coated thickly with dust.

Suddenly my eyes land on what I was looking for. Georges' bike. My eyes water again as I make my way over to it. After he had died, I put it down here, hoping never to have to look at it again. How naive I was then. I take a deep break and dislodge it from the mess. The tired are flat, the chain in desperate need of repair, the paint chipping and the metal rusting.

My lips turn up in a smile as I bring the bicycle and a few of Georges' old tools out to the back. Propping the bike upside down, I roll up my sleeves and begin my repairs. I may be a mere housewife, but I _do _know how to fix things.

I had been working for a little less than an hour when I hear the front door open and shut, feet running through the house.

"_Maman_," It is Luc. I can tell by the panic in this one word that something is terribly wrong. He finally comes to the back of the house and steps out onto the small porch.

I look over my shoulder at him before turning back to the wrench in my hand. My boy's fear is written all over his face, but I speak as calmly as I can. "Your papá used to ride this bike, every day," I say, "He would have wanted you to have it." I give the wrench a good turn, tightening the chain. "Just you promise me that you'll never run away again,"

He mumbles his promise and looks at me with wide, frightened eyes. "What?" I ask, "Luc, what's the matter?"

Luc says nothing, but I can tell by his silence what has happened. After a moments hesitation, he lunges at me and wraps his arms tightly around my waist, burring his tear-streaked face into my blouse. I close my eyes and hold him to me, putting one hand protectively behind his head and the other around his shoulders, which are shaking with quiet sobs.

"Oh, Luc," I murmur into his hair.

"It's not fair, _maman_," he whimpers.

"I know," I hold him tighter, closer, never wanting to let go. I had been so scared, and now he's home again, back here with me. But is this the price he must pay for his night of pure happiness, of freedom? No, it is not fair. Not to him. "I know."

We stand there for a long time. I don't remember the last time my son cried like this, needed me like he does now. Maybe this moment of mother-child bonding is what made me suddenly think of Vianne Rocher, maybe it was how wonderful she had made my own mother's last night, or made nearly everyone in this poor, desolate town happy for the first time in their poor, desolate lives. Maybe it was how she had liberated Joséphine Muscat from her abusive husband, set her free of him. Maybe it was all of these things that made me rethink my judgments of her.

I put Luc to bed. For the first time since he was a child, he asked me to stay with him until he fell asleep. I obliged, even singing a bit to lull him off. He slept in my arms that night, neither of us waking until the bright sun streamed through the window.

The next night, Joséphine came to me, asking for my help. I don't know why I agreed, why I said I would help her try to convince Vianne to stay. I thought of my mother then, again of how this foreign woman had changed her life for the better. It was Vianne who brought my son to meet his grandmother again, who gave him his wings to fly. I looked at the woman, Joséphine, standing before me, a glint in her eyes that I had never seen before.

I listened to her plan. She would teach me and a few of the other men and woman who had become Vianne's friends to make her chocolate, as a thank you and a plea to stay. I don't know why I agreed, but I did.

I learned many other things than just how to make chocolate that night.


End file.
